


Oblivion

by Provocatrixxx



Series: The Night Sky is No Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Dom!John, Dom/sub, Flogging, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When it was done, John had soothed him with balm and orange juice, drawing Sherlock down onto the couch and tending to his back as gently and lovingly as Sherlock had ever known him be.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I think I’d like to hurt you more,” he had whispered, dropping a kiss onto the point of Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand shaking a little where it soothed over his ribs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I think I’m going to need you to,” Sherlock had replied.</i>
</p><p>Sherlock is fond of pain. John, as ever, provides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a reward to myself for completing a workshop. I needed to spend an hour or so in Sherlock's headspace. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> As ever, possibly not safe, reasonably sane, but entirely consensual.

Death is not the only true freedom, though it is undoubtedly the cleanest and purest form. There are other, lesser deaths to be had however. Sherlock is particularly fond of certain types of pain, clean cuts and lines of fire that mollify his mind and pull warm tears from his eyes.

John is especially good at dealing out pain. He has a soldier’s appreciation for it and a medical man’s knowledge of anatomy. He is solidly practical and utilitarian in this, as he is in all things, meting out firm and accurate blows that build in their intensity, slowly and calmly taking Sherlock apart.

There are rules, of course. Sherlock has to ask for pain. John makes him say the words aloud, though Sherlock is grateful that he never asks to know the reason why. It never even occurs to John to ask him, he just nods and accepts what Sherlock needs. 

When they first started, John had made Sherlock hold tight to the doorframe, denying him the comfort and release of restraints as he flogged Sherlock’s naked back with the riding crop, the blows heavy and calculated and nowhere near enough, leaving Sherlock silent and teetering on the edge of being exactly where he needed to be..

It was not until Sherlock had started speaking that John had really dealt out any true pain - fast, sharp strokes for his broken little whimpers and long, drawn-out beatings for his aching, breathless moans. The pain of them had sent Sherlock’s head spinning, tipping him over into the warm, glorious darkness of oblivion.

When it was done, John had soothed him with balm and orange juice, drawing Sherlock down onto the couch and tending to his back as gently and lovingly as Sherlock had ever known him be.

“I think I’d like to hurt you more,” he had whispered, dropping a kiss onto the point of Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand shaking a little where it soothed over his ribs.

“I think I’m going to need you to,” Sherlock had replied.

John allows him the freedom of restraints now, secures him in the doorway of John’s tiny bedroom and locks all the doors between them and the outside world. He has a number of different tools which sit alongside the riding crop, but he favours a soft leather flogger and a sharp, single-tailed whip.

The drag of the leather tails send a shiver through Sherlock’s skin, and he twists his hips wantonly, arching his back until John roughly kicks his legs apart, forces him back into position. John does not speak when they play like this. He directs Sherlock through touch alone.

The first few blows are light and inadequate, barely proper blows at all, and Sherlock whines and growls, not caring how desperate he sounds but needing the pain of it and impatient with want. His skin warms with the friction, blood rushing to the surface to leave the slide of the tails surprisingly cool against his arse as John draws them up over his legs and back.

John has a heavy and precise swing when he gets going, the heavy thud against Sherlock’s arse both welcome and painful, the warring emotions entwining in Sherlock’s mind until they take on a single colour, sharp maroon and gold easing into soothing blue. John’s swings are faster now, criss-crossing up and down his back until Sherlock is a mess of warmth and pain, rocking onto his toes to press up into it, offering himself up to the flogger.

He moans aloud when John stills, the tails no longer cool but scratchy and difficult against his heated, tender skin. John’s fingers are somewhat kinder, the tips tracing random-lines across his back and thighs, and Sherlock wonders idly if John has broken the skin there, if John is dragging the tips of his fingers through fresh red smears of blood.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, “please John. Don’t stop.”

The weight of the flogger leaves his back almost instantly, and he is aware that John has moved away from him back into his room, though he can hear nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, the blood rushing through his veins.

Sherlock is suddenly very aware of himself, of the way the strong leather cuffs enclose his wrists, the ache in his shoulders that comes from straining against his bondage. His body has become more than simply a vessel, and he can feel every inch of it, from the softness of the carpet under his toes to the coolness of the air against his heated back now that John has moved away from him.

The sound of John’s whip flashing through the air is full of promise, and Sherlock does not bother to swallow his groan of delight, sinking his weight back into his heels to better encourage the full force of John’s arm in his blows.

John makes him wait, as knowing and as clever as ever, teasing the moment out until Sherlock is almost shaking with it, his fear and his need and his lust for it coiling through his veins like smoke, grey and green and blue together.

“Please,” Sherlock whines and almost does not recognise his own voice, gone harsh and deep with pleading.

He hears John breathe, listens to him drawing the air through his nose and into his lungs. He fancies he can time the beat of John’s heart and wonders if it is thudding as fast as his own.

John swings once, and the first bite of the lash paints a line of fire from Sherlock’s shoulder to his hip, cold and biting and perfect. The sound it wrenches from him is barely human and time stills, slows, and then rushes on again as John lays three more perfect blows on him in quick succession.

That is the end of all the counting, the end of thought itself. Sherlock allows the bonds to take his weight, arching his back as the lash falls again and again, until he cannot tell the beginning of one from the end of another and everything in his mind is perfect and calm and beautiful and blue. There is only this room and this man and this pain. This is the freedom in death that he has longed for, and he allows it to drag him under, swallowed by the silence and void.

Somewhere in the distance, Sherlock tastes salt tears on his lips and hears the soft sound of John’s voice calling his name. It isn’t important. John will take care of it. John always takes care of him.

END


End file.
